Break
by MercurySays
Summary: He broke records. Broke standards. Broke through the ranks. Rules, expectations, habits: all broken. But what was it like to finally be broken? (Written because BioShock2 left me bitter and I demand a better story.)
1. Prologue

"If he wanted the easy way out, he would've hung himself on the bed frame by the scraps of his pajamas like the other stiffs done. Trust me Sinclair, we ain't breakin' this bronco."

The sharp, crisp strike of a freshly lit match filled what would have been crippling silence for the business tycoon. Pallid, dim light was shortly accompanied by a small warm glow in the penitentiary's central office. The ghostly tail of cigar smoke swirled patiently in front of his face, the way a snake's would when gauging an opponent before striking. After a moment, a smile carved its way into the southern gentleman's terse face. It hardly matched the blank stare boring into his subordinate reporter.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves now. I dare say that there pessimism might've leached into ya from workin' down in Solitary. Now, you and the lab boys tell me he's some sort of genetic miracle. Like...mother nature went in guns a' blazin' and spliced herself a Superman into the poor sucker."

"Yeah. Apparently the guy was ex-Navy, one of those young warbirds that done too much; took a turn in his career to break swimming and diving records in his sleep."

Sinclair futzed with the fresh medical records splayed out on his desk. He wasn't sure how he'd domesticate the celebrity adventurer, best prepare him for "volunteering" at Fontaine Futuristics. The sedatives weren't working well. Only parts of him would fall asleep at once, and the son of a bitch still managed to bite and kick when he could. It took three men to haul him into high security. He was 200 pounds of muscle packed in a 6 foot 2 frame with no medical complications. Only one doctor's note spoke of the celebrity turned hostage: Extremely stubborn.

"Being that Mr. Topside's backside been kicked out of the frying pan and into the fire, I think it's time dear Persephone's best psychiatrist gave him some good company. I'll bet he's lonely and damn upset on account of Ryan's convictions."

He pacified himself on the tobacco, and turned from the medical documents to face the watery windows.

" Let's bring in Lil' Bo Peep. You can't catch bees with vinegar, son."


	2. You're Welcome

"Better company than a pet rock, yeah, pretty boy?"

He studied the dead cat in front of him, swathed in damp clumps of grime and filth. What a sick joke it was to the smarmy strangers neighboring his cell. Was it a gift or something? Several times in his lifespan he'd heard of fresh meat getting a party favor or two from unofficial "welcoming committees" of the general jailbird population. Common courtesy nonsense. But this was just as welcoming as a shot of straight moonshine was for a sober man's throat: everything stung and there was no way to stomach the shit unless the poor bastard took it with no complaints.

"You tell old Kramer what you think of that _pussy_ , Topside."

God, the words were a train wreck in slow motion. Heavy and discolored with chewing tobacco, they squelched out of the hulking sap's crude mouth and dribbled into the cell block. And brimming with a cheap, patronizing aftertaste, they demanded a reaction from the new cat owner.

But the reaction never came. All that followed were some haggard jeers trailing after the butt of the distasteful joke, and those laughs were shortly lost in the metallic, cold acoustics of the area. Between the filthy, grease-slicked bars, the murky light pooled out onto the mass of bony flesh and putrid fur marinating on the cement tiles. The thing had landed with a kind of wet, sloppy and weighted THUD just loud enough to startle the young man awake from his sad excuse for a nap. He didn't recognize what it was until he remembered seeing the sickly thing yesterday, aimlessly skirting around the cafeteria, its head twitching in sync with a short-fused bulb from the kitchen ceiling. The orange and white patches of its fur were slightly cleaner than its current state, but it was definitely the same cat. And it was definitely alive yesterday.

He felt hungry eyes all around, searching, scanning, scavenging for some scrap of rare entertainment. On cue, like shrapnel to unprotected skin, the burly voice slithered in and broke the loathsome silence emanating from Topside's cell.

"Think of it as a housewarming gift, from me to you. You don't gotta autograph it for me. Shucks, I mean, even if you are a really popular celebrity out there. Really popular."

As the man monologued away, Topside fumbled for something, his hands anxious and uneasy. Stifling a sharp breath, he picked up the corpse in front of him and gingerly put it by his side.

"Truth is, you're so popular, now Ryan's gonna play you for keeps, just like he did all of us here. But I hears you ain't ever spliced, huh? Those docs sure know how to think out loud. What, skin too beautiful for that shit? You look like a fruity fairy boy. A real _bitch_ , yeah."

At that, the non-splicer moved his gaze from the feline corpse to the condescending aggressor opposite him. Rather than glare daggers, the man issued a blank, complacent stare from his end of the cell block, his clean skin further highlighted by the frail refracted light around him. He had the one called Kramer lined up at 12 o'clock in his view, the cat at 3 0'clock exactly, and the other undesirable company his eyes could hardly care to count spanning between 10 and 2 o'clock.

"What's the matter, not much of a talker? Didn't seem like it when the warden's triple-A cheerleaders came in and couldn't wait to _play rough_ with you, get you warmed up for your special check-up."

A laugh, sounding more like a jagged cough, accompanied Kramer's statement from a barely-lit corner of the space.

"A real canary, you was. Gotta hand it to ya, though, you're not as big a bitch I thought. Took three of them ball busters to pin you down before you went nappy-bye. But you're still a pansy for cryin' out loud like that. The warden's boss even came down to year ya sing."

Kramer was right. Topside narrowed his eyes a bit, faintly remembering the low, effortlessly brassy and warm southern drawl before he passed out with a pile of six strong, meaty forearms that threatened to steamroll him into the disgusting floor. It wasn't a voice you'd expect to hear in a jail. He couldn't remember exactly what was said by the man, only that he could recognize that he was sharp and careful with words without sacrificing the tempo of his speech. Felt like the talk of one of those ad men, a real marketer-type. Like a rogue copywriter got a hold of the Sunday Post front-page tragedies, screwed up the Harvard man's drafts, and set it to print so the public could sigh and finally say they truly understood the World News.

"Ain't fair you're the talk in this shitty end of town. But I guess we can even the odds a bit when dinnertime comes up. Just you 'n' me."

A slight cracking sound came from Topside's cell, but was soon muffled by the other man's coarse speech.

"Maybe dinner...and a _show_. What do you think, pretty boy? Little quality time?"

A ball bounced into Kramer's cell. Actually, it didn't really bounce at all. It was hurled over in a fraction of a second, hit the back wall with gusto, crashed flatly into the cell bars, and toppled ungracefully onto the jailbird's feet. As he went to pick it up, he stopped mid-crouch, hand open and ready to grab the thing. It was staring right back at him, eyes as wide as his.

The cat's head had ricocheted around Kramer's cell. In silence, the man turned to face Topside as he stood upright again and placed his hands on the cell bars.

The rest of the cat was laid out in front of the newcomer's cell, four limbs and tail outstretched, occupying the space of a rectangle.

It may as well have been a welcome mat.


End file.
